You are now living in your house in Second Life. No really, you don't exist in reality, you exist on the cyber plane that is Second Life. You are now a extremely complex AI that takes up a lot of the server bandwidth. And then they shut down a year later, you die along with the game. But hey, cool house!

I wish I had people on my Steam Friendlist to play Borderlands 2 with.

You do, but most of them are jerks and insult you and your playing style. That, or they decide that it'd be more fun for them if they'd fight you over and over instead of doing anything remotally interesting.

Granted! You have an amazing week! The best week ever! On Friday at 5PM, Google buys your company, transfers the top ten software engineers to the Googleplex, then disbands the company and lays everyone else off. (You didn't make the cut.)

[N.B.: I heard about the practice of "aqui-hiring" on the news this morning...)

Tomorrow goes well with me. See, tomorrow is my gaming day. I play Malifaux and Warmachine and other good games as such, and tomorrow I win all of them. Everyone loves me. Although... It sure does suck to be you.

I wish that I could be a Pathfinder Iconic for my own Prestige Class: Gallant Knight.

Granted! You are the Iconic for the Gallant Knight. However, your class is so nerfed that nobody even bothers to acknowledge your existence, except for those who want to have pictures of you burned or blame you for the downfall of Pathfinder.

Granted! After extensive lobbying by a super-PAC headed by DJ-Bogie, government cancels residency along all of the New Jersey shoreline, declaring it to be a national park. 12 million people demand Bogie's head!

Granted. You live near Yellowstone. While mowing your lawn one day, a herd of bison stampepe through the neighborhood and trample you. You spend the rest of your life in an iron lung looking out the window at the same scene every day.

Granted, you have tons of money in the bank. However, they've just been bought by a bigger bank that doesn't play by FDIC rules and has all their money tied up into investments in the Mars housing bubble.

You get a pony. A generic, every day run-of-the-mill WILD pony. It will not let you ride it and will buck you off if you try. Also, it eventually escapes... Hey, it's in my yaRD CHASING MY CHICKENS!!! GAAAAAAAH!! YOU WILL HEAR OF THIS!!

Your wish has been granted, mortal! The white paint on your minis is so dazzling that people are blinded. They can't tell what you actually painted, but they assume they are statuettes of Jesus. They hail you as a prophet and the bringer of the end times. People cry tears of joy and anguish at the mention of your name. Then, your cats eat your minis.